Old World and the New
by Aubretia Lycania
Summary: Young Donatello will only go so long in his life accepting answers from others, and through an experiment, it is time he found some measure of truth for himself. A WTL-verse story, and Xmas gift to Winnychan.


Author: Aubretia Lycania

Description: Young Donatello will only go so long in his life accepting answers from others, and through an experiment, it is time he found some measure of truth for himself. A WTL-verse story, and Xmas gift to Winnychan.

Author's Notes: This is a Walking the Line continuity "chibi" story, as some would call it, taking place when the turtles are nine. It can be read without reading WTL, but will take on fuller meaning if one has. This is not a chibi fluff fic, so sorry to disappoint anyone hunting for that particular genre. This fic was written for my good friend and fellow Tart Winnychan as a Christmas present, as she is the awesomest. Enjoy and Merry Christmas, Winny! (belated, hehehe)

Old World and the New

Candlelight gleamed from the old but well-tended wooden mortuary tablet; in kanji—some of the few kanji Donatello knew by this point in his life—it read "Hamato Yoshi." On the other side of the altar lay another, Chinese kambun for "Tang Shen." The figures of these names in their origins had very little meaning for Donatello. He was nine, and these people lived in a fairytale about a world he didn't understand or even cared about. His was a much more visceral land, moist pipes that glistened in snatches of moonlight, strewn with trash, and bits of useful objects—very real, in the way Donatello could appreciate; it was not pretty, but none could invalidate it, and this place, though not a kingdom, was indomitably theirs.

It was nearly the three days of Bon, the Japanese festival of the dead, and as he always did, their father and teacher Splinter went over all the words for the objects on the altar and getting them ready to commemorate the last generation of their hodgepodge family. Until nighttime, this yearly ritual was terrifically boring. Leonardo had gradually come to appreciate the solemnity and the heritage of these ceremonies, and the comforting predictability as it came around each August. Michelangelo seemed to deal with the ceremony in anticipation of the celebration part—he was never one to talk or think about death; conversely, Raphael, who at nine had an unhealthy fixation on the subject, listened with uncommon eagerness to their father's lectures on the Buddhist afterlife, Shinto kami, hungry ghosts, lost spirits, and otherworldly demons. Donatello felt nothing at these ceremonies—seldom did he allow himself to be carried away by rituals that were meant to accompany emotion—too often he sat and thought, about anything but the event at hand. He thought about radio waves, or a book he'd read, or watched Leonardo, and wondered how his elder brother could be so entranced. Both Raphael's and Michelangelo's attractions to O Bon he could understand—Raphi was morbid and Mikey was fun-loving, and Bon was both. But Leo perplexed him, and until this year, Donnie allowed the matter to remain a perplexity only, never seeking to question.

Before Bon, the Hamato family cleaned out their den, made sure not a speck of dust lay on the altar, and stocked up fresh flowers and a small amount of sake to set before the mortuary tablets. Supplies were tight, but this was one tradition that Splinter never overlooked, no matter how makeshift they had to make it. They collected newspaper, died it red, purple, orange, yellow, and blue with old Easter egg pellets found in dumpsters outside daycare centers, and fashioned stand-in washi gift boxes, small letters to their master's master, and little origami boats with the remnants of candles their father had saved; they made a small meal, and packed it well in clean leaves scavenged from the park, brought along their whittled chopsticks and delicately arranged flowers in the Japanese ikebana style, settled a candle in a washi paper lamp, and set out as a troupe, to a small, neatly tended chamber, where two graven rocks lay as markers, on the first day of Bon.

Leo poured cool water over the stones this year, cleansing them entirely of grime; Master Splinter swept the chamber, banishing the dust and evil powers out through the door; Raphael set the flowers down, as neatly and symmetrically as he could, while Mikey, who tended the candles, whispered jokes about Raphi's talents as a flower girl. Donnie sat, only half-hearing his younger brothers whisper together in quiet bickering, pondering Leo, who was the only one of them—Splinter excluded—who was not merely going through the motions. Donnie could not be sure if it was devotion to tradition, to their father, or even to Hamato Yoshi, that made Leo do it—or if he simply wanted to look good, _better_ than the rest of them—but he worked so lovingly, so engrossed in the task, that he didn't seem to care whom was looking at him, who kept score, or whether it even mattered to him. Leo could always immerse himself in the task at hand, a talent to be envied. Donnie continued about his chore, spooning sticky rice into seven tiny bowls, and oden, made from simmered potatoes, radish, carrots, and tofu, into seven more. They dined in this way many nights, as Splinter knew of few other dishes to make—he knew how to ferment soy beans, and thus to make protein-rich natto, miso, and soy sauce, and then further pickle any number of vegetables in the Japanese style, which was the best way he knew to flavor many nights of tasteless rice, and to preserve for long periods the provisions they were able to scavenge. A season's worth of necessaries could be acquired from a bag of soy beans, a few bags of rice, salt, and any vegetable at hand.

Then the prayers began, chanting in languages the young turtles did not know, and a few words in Japanese, begging that the departed return to them to their home and reside with them for the next three days. Donnie inwardly rolled his eyes—as though they had room for the five of them as it was. He also doubted that Hamato Yoshi would be much impressed by their subterranean abode—unlike most immigrant families, their state had gotten worse over the next generations, not better, since the crossing from Japan. But he was thinking of it from a human paradigm, and these people were humans: wholly unlike them, their next generations, entirely. He found something very useless in the ceremony. They were not blood-related, nor had Tang Shen or Hamato Yoshi so much as known about their turtle "descendents" during their lifetime. They had loved Splinter, but he was nothing but a pet. What pet says prayers for the departed, lights incense for their souls, and leads his children in sending boats down blackened sewage rivulets, to guide the souls of the dead?

They ate; the air was clogged with incense fumes; Leo could use his chopsticks with elegant precision, while his brothers, who were little, clumsy, and somewhat unwieldy, still appeared to struggle.

"Master Splinter," Donnie piped up, in his young helpful voice, which couldn't fail to make at least one little brother roll his eyes, "I've seen people on the surface use utensils with little points—they can scoop and spike and do all sorts of stuff. Why don't we try those?"

His father sat musing for a minute, blinking thoughtfully. "These objects you speak of are called _forks_, my son, and I refrain from using them because they are difficult to find, cannot be made of wood, and would be even harder to replace. A chopstick can be made from anything, with quickness and precision, and can be used to eat nearly any food."

Donatello fell silent for a moment, then piped up again; he heard Leo let out a very audible sigh once he had. "Why do we make food for them if they can't eat?"

Splinter blinked still more at his child. "We make the gesture of inviting them to dine with us; once a year, we make this sacrifice of our provisions out of respect and reverence for our departed. Do you see, Donatello?" He then turned to his eldest. "Do not be impatient with your brothers' curiosity, Leonardo. We do not discourage questioning in our family."

Leo appeared sullen for a quarter of a second, before the emotion slid off his face and behind his eyes.

"Yes, sensei."

Donnie then caught him exchange a look with Raphael over their bowls, and Raphi shrugging indifferently; he had plainly not been listening and no longer cared. Little mattered to him nowadays, and a ceremony of this kind could only claim his interest because of its subject matter, not for its familial interactions. The disappointment on Leo's face took longer to vanish. The relationship between them—between Leonardo and Raphael—had soured very much since what Donnie to himself named _the incident_. In some tiny place within himself, he was glad for _the incident_ because frankly, the ongoing alliance between his brothers had been annoying. They were once an exclusive pair, and now they had little choice but to separate and allow Donnie and Mikey to join in.

They packed up, and after leaving another incense stick burning, Master Splinter once more entreated the invisible spirits to follow; they trouped out to a slowly-moving stream of sewage, and set their lighted boats atop the water—four, in their favorite colors, bright and slowly bobbing away into the darkness, the blue ship in the lead, to guide the souls of the friendless into the next lifetime.

That evening the turtles set to work on origami shapes at their kitchen table, while Splinter spent his time at the altar, conversing with his master in quick Japanese. In the center of the table was their yearly Bon gift: a goldfish captured from a small pond, probably radioactive, but bright orange and frisky nevertheless, swimming in a clear glass bowl with a cracked edge. Raphi was staring at it unabashedly, while Mikey kept knocking on the glass with his finger, making Raphael swat at him angrily. Donnie analyzed it with pleasure now and again, enjoying it but neither tormenting nor engrossed. The only one who seemed to take no notice of it was Leonardo, who, with almost frighteningly fanatical precision, folded his origami shapes perfectly, outdoing all of them for style, form, and execution. Absorbed in what he was doing, he little cared for the fish. Raphael, to whom this same propensity was not unfamiliar, instead paid little attention to his sloppy origami and looked almost entirely on the pet.

Donatello privately believed it a bad decision for Splinter to catch them a fish this year, as so short a time had gone by since _the incident_ and Raphael would never be allowed his own pet again. The goldfish always died within a couple days—worse than pet store fish, these were less than hardy, more than likely already sick, often missing scales, and in need of nursing, which Raphael loved to give but had little know-how when it came to the aquatic species. By the end of Bon, the fish would be gone; it was a strong, yearly lesson in the transience of life and the nature of death, but only this year did Donatello quietly resent it. If Leonardo felt the same way as him, he would have vocalized it by now to their father, but there was little use in this; Splinter would do what he thought was right, and often his sons could not see the larger lesson or picture until much later in life.

His technique may not have been as exact or as superfluously perfect as Leo's, but Michelangelo was arguable the best at origami, as he understood its principles and was creative enough to come up with his own shapes, without the need of prefabricated designs, which Leo scrupulously adhered to. At the moment he was at work on a leaf of pink paper, his tongue held ardently between his teeth; he finished, and perched the new shape on Raphael's head, giggling: it was a pink bow, and rather well-made—Donatello glanced at it and chuckled, though Raphi did not yet know what it was.

"Looking good, Raphi—you should wear it tomorrow!" Mikey laughed. Raphael snatched it down just as Leo took notice, and threw it with evident annoyance at Michelangelo.

"D'you have to be a brat all the time, Mikey? God!" he exclaimed, and went back to his origami half-heartedly, looking every few seconds back at the goldfish. Leonardo said nothing, continuing on his work, now on a piece of orange paper; he finished it, and placed it quietly beside the glass bowl—a little origami goldfish, looking in on its living counterpart as from another tank, kissing the glass between them. Raphael smiled slightly.

"Hey, that's really good," he remarked, but Leo frowned slightly, surveying a small wrinkle on the right side.

"Think I messed up on the fin."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Like it matters. Who's gonna see it?"

Leo's eyes were stern and intense. "Me."

Don leant his head in his hand, smiling. "Perfectionist."

Mikey blinked. "Whazat?"

Don adopted his explanatory voice. "A person who constantly seeks to be perfect in everything."

After this sudden loquacity, Donatello fell silent once more, again the observer of his brothers. The sound of Japanese died away from the next room, and Splinter joined them at the table, looking and commenting on their origami forms, and starting to teach Leonardo and Donatello a new one—Raphael was too busy watching the fish to notice or care, and Michelangelo was long known to prefer invention to instruction.

The form was a coy fish, with long, fluttering tail fins that required the combination of two separate origami formations—large and beautiful, the grown incarnation of the little, stunted goldfish in the fishbowl, who would never reach such a size or strength, who would never swim in garden pools beneath mulberry trees and falling blossoms, under bridges and the sounds of gracefully meandering feet. Death rested already in the eyes of their Bon fish, dropped into the sewers like themselves and forgotten by the world.

Abruptly, as questions from earlier swam to the surface of his mind, Donatello interrupted the origami lesson.

"Master Splinter—when Master Yoshi and his wife leave us, where are they going to go? Why don't they stay here all year?"

Splinter blinked at his son, considering his answered carefully. "That, I suppose, is a question I cannot fairly answer, as there are many explanations and none of them have ever been proven better or more true than the next. In Japan, it is often the belief that spirits spend a period wandering the earth or the spirit realm before reincarnating, unless they have achieved enlightenment. Others believe they watch over their families for many, many generations, never leaving the family altar. This is the belief I have always known, and much of it has translated to the principles of the martial arts. However, merely because these are the beliefs I know of does not mean that I will discourage myself or my sons from further investigation."

Donatello blinked inquisitively. "What do New Yorkers believe?"

Splinter weighed his answer even longer this time. "There is a far greater spectrum of belief in this country than in Japan, my son, and I do not have sufficient knowledge of many of those beliefs to do them justice. I shall look for informative news and magazine articles on this subject in the future, so that we shall both be better versed."

Donnie sat back, somewhat amazed. His father was a master of so many subjects that it was strange to find one he knew so little about. But to be fair, Splinter had spent most of his time in America in the sewers rather than in a home among American people, and thus had not the advantage with it that he had with Japanese subjects. He, Donatello, from his better ear for English, superior reading skills developed from a younger age, and voracious book learning, most likely knew more about what he was asking than their father. Don looked over in his amazement, to find a similar look on his brothers' faces, and Raphael piped up.

"So… you don't actually _know_ where people go when they die? You just… guess?"

Splinter smiled gently at his second youngest. "Well, Raphael, my one piece of wisdom on the subject is that, unless one has actually died and remembers doing so and what became of them, guessing is _all_ one can ever do, no matter how old or knowledgeable."

Leonardo's eyes were stiffly on the table before him, his body tense, his voice quiet. "But you know everything, sensei."

Splinter's smile grew wider. "I am sorry I have led you to believe so, my student. But there is a much wider world than that which we know here, underground, and I am hardly its master; my students shall one day turn to be my teachers when it concerns the new world above. I am older, and now perhaps more set in my ways, than I was even when you were young children. Perhaps if Donatello is ever able to make a television work, I shall again become a better student."

Death as a subject was very unpleasant, and even more disturbing was the thought that their father knew no more about it than themselves—so it came as no surprise when Mikey, hitherto silent, chimed in.

"Master Splinter, can I name the fish? I was thinking Captain Bubbles!"

Donnie sighed when the subject turned, but Raphael as ever facilitated it, as he always was the first to react to Mikey, whether negatively or positively, never able to help himself.

"We already _had_ a Captain Bubbles, remember?"

"Okay, fine—Captain Bubbles 2, the Revenge! Like on the posters!"

"That's too long," Raphael mumbled, and Leo shook his head, feigning carelessness.

"Yeah—hard to fit on a headstone."

"Leonardo!" Splinter admonished his eldest, who shrugged.

"It's true. I'm just saying."

"The simple fact of a thing being true does not excuse one from saying it if it causes harm, my son."

Raphael frowned. "What harm?"

Leonardo smiled at him. "See, Master Splinter? Raphi's not a baby—he can handle it."

Raphael beamed, slightly unconvincingly.

The second day of Bon came and drew nearer to a close—another trail of boats, again in four colors, bobbed out of sight on slimy waters, glittering in the dark. Today the turtles gathered and whittled chopsticks, bowls and toys from salvaged pieces of old wood, smoothed them with handfuls of coarse sand, and diligently painted them with dyes until they shown with lovely colors, albeit childish designs. Splinter prayed at the family altar for his master's prosperous entrance into the next life, whatever it may be.

By now, the fish had begun swimming in slow, forced circles, one fin strong, the other lagging, and each time the fish stopped moving, it leant to one side, unable to retain its equilibrium any longer. This night saw an intriguing reversal of the former—Leonardo showed a marked fascination for the animal, and Raphael a nearly pained aversion. Its lolloping swim held Leo seemingly transfixed—now that it was sick, he gave it his full attention.

And it was then that a cold observation happened upon Donnie… Leonardo loved to be needed, and thus he only noticed the sick and the broken. That's why he focused so intently on Raphael, the sick fish in their family swimming in helpless circles.

Leonardo only noticed the fish when it was sick or dying.

Then again, perhaps he only noticeably saw the fish when it was sick—only now could it entice a reaction from him, one his brothers could see and take note of.

Donatello had perhaps a too-rational mind; so often did he logic himself out of unnecessary feeling, that at times his desires became sequestered away by his heart, afraid of logical sanction; in this fashion would previously harmless desires grow, as to a clod of earth speeding down a mountain, picking up as it moves along—this desire in particular had picked up a quantity of confusion, of hodgepodge knowledge collected secretly in the brain, resentment, anger, helplessness, and a fierceness, that in most things Donatello was unfamiliar with. It crept into a secure hiding place, and there it multiplied, fermented, far from conscious thought. Yet now as he looked at the dying fish his mind was struck with an inkling of what his heart wished to do, and he shuddered. Yet his was a child's mind, ingenious as he was, and couldn't quite grasp the scope of the consequences at hand—what, after all, would be the lasting harm in taking a small tumble, in becoming the sick fish in the family, if only for a time, and enjoying even a small hint of that attention, short-lived and ephemeral as it would inevitably be.

Confessedly, he in any case felt a bit bored with Raphael always sick and picked on, of Michelangelo always hurt and whining (his mind now hyperbolized for the immediate purpose) and Leonardo always shouldering responsibilities he never needed, while he, Donatello, sat on the sidelines, watching but never affecting. The way their family worked often left Donnie as no one's elder brother and no one's younger brother—he was merely _brother_, with little place to anyone but Michelangelo, to whom he was a constant playmate in the days when their siblings orbited in constant gravitation around one another, forgetting everything.

Time to taste the rain of the action, to be in the center of the maelstrom rather than a data-gatherer. He set his plan into action, deciding on the day of parting, the third day of Bon, for an innocent tumble.

Years later this idiotic move in a person so intelligent would be a source of constant laughter and heckling, but at the time it inspired little more than terror; when a person one knows has so long fit into a neat, perfectly labeled box, their actions codified and always predictable, a sudden rash action far against their character is perhaps more horrifying than the consequences of the act itself—it opens the door to a spot in that person previously unexplored, references a lifetime's worth of walking in the dark, the impossibility of knowing even the closest family members in the closest of situations. For Donatello's intentions, however, he inspired this feeling in the wrong people, and in the most unexpected as well.

When he opened his eyes, he knew by the position of the candles that it was evening—and from the smell of incense, it was still the third day of Bon, and he had been lain down to rest in his father's futon—and he could not feel his arm. He was remarkably light, his head, alternatively, strangely heavy, and his entire body, as to prevent it from floating away and leaving his head on the pillow, had been matted down with several pounds worth of blanket—his own blankets, Leonardo's blankets, Raphael's, and his father's. Someone, a small, hunched green outline, sat at the corner of the futon, wrapped up in another piece of cloth, and Donatello itched to recall how he'd gotten here, and why his arm had detached from his body; he tried to disentangle a hand, to prod at his missing shoulder, but three cold digits prevented him, panicked.

"Don't do that! It'll hurt soon. Master Splinter doesn't want you to move."

Donnie squinted through the dimness—only one candle in the room told him he was meant to sleep the night through, and he couldn't be sure what had awoken him—some surge, as from the bowels of a dream, had jolted him back into the world.

But he knew the voice. And for some reason, it had deeply surprised him. Yet the more he thought on it, the more he wondered why it had.

"M-Mikey?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's L—um… where's everyone?"

"Well…" Mikey seemed ready to ramble. "Leo thinks you did it on purpose, and I told him he was stupid, and we kinda got into a fight, and Raphi ran back to get Master Splinter because he was on the right side and saw your arm looked funny, and now Raphi and Leo are kinda mad at each other, and Master Splinter's talkin' to em, and I'm here with you. Want some food? There's still rice balls. Saved you a couple." All this was spoken as though Mikey believed someone would beat him to it, as when all four of them were trying to tell Masterr Splinter a story at once.

"What d'you mean—my arm—looked funny? How funny?"

Mikey's voice grew quieter. "Um… I dunno… like, twisted sorta. Like a twisty straw. Like… not right. Raphi was freaked out. You didn't wake up for a long time and you know how he gets now. Thought you were dead and me and Leo had to tell him he was all kinds of dumb. You never get hurt like the rest of us so maybe it was just your turn."

Then Donnie knew it—his arm had broken. But that was too passive a statement. Rather, _he_ had broken _his own_ arm. And to show for it? Leo had seen what he'd done, knew, as Raphi and Mikey never would, that it had been purposeful—and it was Michelangelo beside him now, not who he'd wished for. Yet what had he done?

"What—did you see what happened?"

Mikey pondered. "Not really. We were playing ninja tag outside the den and you went up a pipe and then you lost your grip or something. It's been kinda slimy out there, so I thought you slipped. You fell right on your shoulder, and you didn't roll and get up like usual, because you hit your head somewhere. But you're better now. Can I sign your cast? Master Splinter's getting the paper water stuff ready with Raphi and Leo. You get to wear the New York Times for a few weeks." Mikey chuckled, dauntless as ever. Yet his position on the side of the bed said enough—he'd been scared out of his wits, yet he refused to believe that Donnie had done it on purpose.

"Why does Leo think I did it on purpose, Mikey?"

Mikey blinked. "He was in the pipe with you. Remember? Leo picked you for his team cuz Raphi's being a brat and stuck _me _with him," nevertheless, this seemed to make Mikey rather cheerful, "and I guess cuz you don't get hurt, like, _ever_, Leo thinks you did it on purpose."

Donnie smiled—Leo would rather believe Donnie did it on purpose, for whatever reason, than think Donnie could miscalculate and get himself hurt just as carelessly as Raphi or Mikey could. Donnie wasn't allowed to be a little brother—he was the smart one and Leo—

_He relies on me_.

This thought, older than Donatello, coming from somewhere strange, like a memory of something he'd been told, almost overcame him, and he slipped into a lethargy of deep thought and misery.

"_Mikey—stop pestering me, I dunno what's wrong with him—go see what's keeping Raphi and Master Splinter, quick! I'll stay with Donnie."_

"_Don't order me around—Raphi can get Master Splinter without my help, Leo."_

"_Just __do it__, you're making me crazy!"_

"_Why're __you__ staying here? I can do it! You go tell Master Splinter. You don't get to stay with Donnie if you really think he's so dumb he'd break his arm on purpose."_

"_Stop being a stupid kid and DO as I SAY, Michelangelo! I'm staying here because I'm the oldest and Master Splinter relies on me, okay?"_

Michelangelo's eyes were hooded—he appeared tired, confused—nothing like the voice that touched Donatello, somewhere in what he'd believed to be dreams. Mikey, the person who had so earnestly defended him, who perhaps knew enough to do so. And was it a hopeful dream, that rearrangement of Leonardo's words, through the haze of pain, the throb in his head, the sound of his own panicked heartbeat—

"_Donatello—your older brother relies on you_."

Perhaps it had been another voice after all—perhaps one buried somewhere deep in his subconscious, hope at the bottom of Pandora's Box. It was a silly, childish hope, after all, and something outside of his desires knew this. That, of course, did not stop him from feeling it, keenly and with a twisting ache, in the pit of his stomach.

Another figure appeared in the shadows behind Michelangelo, carrying a large basin.

"My son—join Leonardo and Raphael. In a time, please return with some food and tea for your brother," came Master Splinter's voice, as the old rat set his load down beside the futon—full of a very thick papier-mâché viscous, ready to be made into a cast for Donatello's now-tingling right arm. Mikey passed his brother another look, full of rather false confidence, and bounded up, out of the room—Donnie wondered which of them needed more convincing. Splinter knelt beside his son; Don opened his mouth to speak, but his father held up a clawed hand to silence the attempt.

"Do not assume that simply because this is uncommon for you, that I will not excuse you for a moment of weakness which is not uncommon to your younger brothers, my son."

Donnie realized he'd been holding his breath and released it, compelled to sit up—at the very first instance his arm moved, a strange sound caught his ear—the sound of bone popping against bone, and the fleshy shudder of muscles around it—he felt suddenly very nauseated. Splinter steadied him with a hand on his carapace, and began unwrapping the simple cloth bandages that had pinioned his arm uneasily to his side. Splinter had lit a few more candles in the room, flinging light into shadowy corners—and it was then that Donatello noticed what he previously could not have seen—the altar, the tablets, his ancestors watching over him, and sitting upon a nearby low table, a small bowl, with a still, lifeless object.

"Perfect timing," Donnie mused aloud, after only half giving meant to do so. Splinter traced his son's eye line.

"I have been waiting for the day when your precocious mind would begin to question me, Donatello. I knew you would not live long contented with only the answers I have to offer—I can only hope you will understand how little I myself know, and will allow me to guide you in seeking those answers which might satisfy your curiosity, my son."

Donnie continued with his eyes upon the fish, its dull eyes unreflecting, golden body glinting like a slice of sunlight.

"How long was I out, sensei?"

"For several hours, my son."

"I don't remember any of it. No dreams. Nothing. It was dark, I don't know how long, and then I was here."

"Yes, my Donatello."

The pain was stabilizing, reminded him of his body which had previously been floating in a sea of nothingness, and made him again a corporeal object, not merely a brain attached to a balloon in an ocean of questions and twilight. His eyes lifted to meet his father's.

"Maybe that's what death is like. Maybe it's nothing like the people above or the people Japan think it's like."

Splinter's ears went back for a moment, his eyes closing as in deep thought; he raised a hand to his son's face, which was fast cringing under the rising pain.

"Death is a New World, my son. I have sometimes wondered how different this New World is from the afterlife; many who have never seen America claim its streets are paved with gold, and this the same claim made of heaven, which none alive have laid eyes on. If these sewers are the truth of America, I wonder then how much heaven must differ as well. But I am nevertheless certain that if death is so near to something we know in life—whether towns or dreaming—that there would be little point in it. I would like to believe that death is the next adventure myself, rather than something so commonplace—it is, I hope, more strange and inconceivable than anything you or I might imagine." His face grew dire. "But no matter what it may be, my son—I shudder to see you toe the line of death for any reason, weakness aside. Have no doubt that your curiosity will someday be satisfied—but think long and hard on what day that shall be, and why."

His son didn't answer, looking again, with a twisted face, at the dead goldfish; he could feel the shudders of pain now rocking the child's body, and he quickened his ministrations, to shorten the time of anguish.

Donatello leaned back, after surveying the lifeless object of his inspiration; he would either get well or die, such was the pain, but he could not continue in a broken condition forever. He was not made broken, not like Raphael. Sickness was not his natural state.

But he _felt _sick.

Wasn't that enough to make Leo notice?

End


End file.
